The Wars That Made Me (ON HIATUS)
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *AU* When Hermione meets dashing Bucky Barnes, she doesn't expect to hear he's best friends with her long-lost grandfather—or that he needs her help finding the man (who, of course, is likely in grave peril). During their search, she comes to understand why Gran never spoke of the man who won her heart. For some people, time stands still. Those they love are rarely so fortunate.
1. A Shock, Indeed

**1)** Canon-Divergent AU for both verses.

 **2)** The premise for this story is based in a real-life _What If_ scenario that happened to me at the end of 2017. My friends and those who follow me on tumblr are already aware of this, but long story short, it all came about after my grandmother passed, and I was saddled with the sad task of helping my mother sort through her things. We came across all sorts of mementos of my grandfather, an army airman in WWII, who was also an artist who'd attended the World's Fair, and I heard the story of a family friend who'd also served named 'Bucky', who died young under unknown circumstances. My son promptly declared his great-grandfather was Captain America, and said to me "Imagine, one day you get a phone call from someone claiming to be Grandpa's best friend, and he tells you his name is Bucky?" I didn't want to _imagine,_ but my brain was already on it, and here we are.

 **3)** Chapter lengths may vary wildly. Some may be close to 5k words, some may not even make 2k. I have learned not to force, or curtail, chapters based on word counts, because that can stall creativity and kill motivation. Updates will be sporadic.

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER :** I do not own _Harry Potter_ , _Marvel Cinematic Universe_ , or any affiliated characters, and make no profit in any form from this story.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

A Shock, Indeed

Hermione Granger wasn't sure what she felt when she received the news. Her grandmother was gone, yet . . . . She'd never actually known the woman. Stories, sure . . . . She'd heard enough tales about the American Exploits of Peggy Carter to write an entire series of spy novels, she was sure—and those were just the adventures people were "allowed to talk about," but she'd always had the sense her biological maternal grandmother was much more than the woman in those stories, even if she didn't have an especially high opinion of the agent who'd returned to England in the midst of World War II's chaos pregnant.

Oh, no, no. It wasn't the pregnancy that she frowned on. Single motherhood was nothing of which to be ashamed, and she knew that her grandfather—who's name she had often felt was kept secret from them on purpose—was Killed in Action. It was the decisions Peggy had made thereafter. She'd only stayed long enough to give birth to a daughter, whom she named Dahlia Carter, sign adoption papers making her sister the child's guardian, and then she was off, again. Back across the pond, and to her life doing God knew what for the US government.

Giving her head a shake, Hermione sniffled, running a fingertip over the photograph her cousin Sharon had handed her. She didn't even know this woman who'd popped up on her parents' doorstep, yet they were cousins! They were cousins, and Sharon actually got to know her. Got to grow up calling her Aunt Peggy.

Was it because she was American? Because she worked for the government, too? Because she _didn't_ look like her? What?

Wrangling her emotions, Hermione forced a sad, tight-lipped grin as she lifted her gaze back to Sharon's. The blond woman's face was clear, but her eyes were red. Well . . . Hermione knew she couldn't blame her for Peggy's choices, and perhaps she wasn't being wholly fair to Peggy for that matter, either.

"I'm sorry, this is just a lot to process. I barely knew more than the woman's name, now you expect me to go to her funeral?" After all, she didn't know what it must've felt like, how terrifying it must've been to consider leaving her life behind when the man she loved had died.

To wonder if raising that daughter would be a constant reminder of the person she'd lost . . . .

Nodding, Sharon set down the cup of tea Hermione's mother had made her. Dahlia'd had to excuse herself upon hearing the news, asking the witch to get the information while she got acquainted with their relative. "I'm sorry, I know this is out of the blue. I really . . . I knew we had family here, but I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't," Hermione said in a low voice as she held the picture for Sharon to take back, aware just how many family secrets had probably come to light with Peggy's passing. "You don't _feel_ like someone who'd ignore family."

A barely-there half smile curved Sharon's lips as she waved away the photo. "No, keep it. You get feelings about people, too, huh?"

Her brows shooting up, Hermione nodded, looking over the image once more. The picture was easily from before Dahlia was born. Peggy had been breathtakingly beautiful, and Hermione recognized that she got her eyes from her grandmother.

"Suppose it must run in our blood."

Sharon bit her lip on a smile, averting her gaze for a moment. She could tell Hermione Granger was angry—why shouldn't she be?—but there was a strange sort of reverence to the way she was looking at Aunt Peggy's picture. Like she was still trying to connect with her. How heartbreaking.

Swallowing hard, Hermione set aside the picture and looked at her cousin. She waited for the other woman to meet her gaze before she spoke. "You'll have to understand this is very bizarre for me. My mother is taking this hard, but . . . I don't know how to feel. This is someone who, regardless of circumstances, gave her child away, and then went on to lead such a full life . . . but without _us_. The occasional letter, some shiny bauble for a birthday, or Christmas."

Despite her best efforts to control her temper, Hermione found her voice raising. "I have more things _from_ her than I have memories _of_ her. Enough to know I have her eyes and inherited her penmanship, but I don't know the sound of her voice, I don't know the touch of her hand! Yet, you think it's somehow _not_ asking too much to expect me to go mourn her as though I actually knew her?!"

Sharon winced at the tone the other young woman had taken. Yep, there was that anger, but she couldn't tell her anything she didn't already know about Peggy's reasons for what she'd done. She supposed finding out someone could move on and live a full life without you was a bit of a gut punch for anyone.

Dahlia appeared in the doorway, then. Her watery, displeased gaze fixed on her daughter. "Hermione!"

The younger woman looked up, but she refused to soften her expression. "No, okay? I'm sorry, Mum. I have the right to be upset over this, don't I?"

Her shoulders slumping, Dahlia crossed the room. A sad little grin playing on her lips, she fussed with Hermione's wild golden-brown hair for a few moments as she said, "Of course you do. But we're _still_ going to pay our respects."

Even with everything Sharon Carter had witnessed in her career working for multiple government agencies, she thought she'd never seen anything quite as terrifying as the flicker of pure wrath that flashed through her cousin's eyes for a split-second. So fast, she nearly missed it, but she knew what she'd seen. Hermione shut down her fury as fast as that glimpse had slipped out. And instead of lashing out or saying a word further, she merely nodded, her face blank.

Oh, yeah. She was Peggy Carter's granddaughter, all right.

* * *

"So, I'm gonna guess she said no."

Sharon sighed, shaking her head in response to Sam's whispered words as they observed the casket being laid to rest. "She's here, isn't she?" At the dubious looks that earned her from the men standing on either side of her, she only sighed once more. "I didn't really get to explain the entire situation. I mean, she was rattled enough about the funeral, I thought asking her to help find Steve might be overstepping a bit."

"You're saying she needs to be set at ease, first?"

Her brow furrowed as she turned her attention to him. "Of course she does. Who wouldn't under the circumstances?"

Sam snickered, jutting his chin to her opposite side. "Seems like a job for the ladies' man."

Bucky's eyes shot wide as he looked from Sam to Sharon and back. "What? Me?"

"I'm sorry, is there someone standing behind you? Yeah, you." Rolling his eyes, Sam shook his head.

Swallowing hard, Bucky glanced at the young woman in question. He'd been in life threatening situations more times than he could count, but somehow the idea of potentially pissing off Agent Carter's granddaughter was enough to qualify as 'scary.' "Listen, my so-called 'ladies' man' skills have taken a bit of a nose dive over the past half-century. You should do it."

"Well, I admit I'm smooth," Sam said with a grin, "but I think this could do with that touch of awkward self-deprecation you've picked up since getting your memories back."

Groaning, he let his head fall back. "Fine. I'll ask her if she wants to get a drink, or something."

"See, you still got it. Just don't forget we have an actual mission, here, okay?"

Bucky grumbled under his breath as he started in the direction of the woman in question. She was still at the graveside, though most of the other mourners had trickled away by now.

Hermione heard the crunch of dry grass under footfalls approaching behind her. A late comer? Someone too shy to come to the graveside with a load of other people watching?

Anyone who had known her own grandmother better than she had.

But that was when he spoke, his voice tumbling out, deep but tinged with the faintest note of trepidation, "Um, hi."

She turned on her heel, prepared to politely tell the man to go away as she was in _no_ mood for company just now. But those words died on her lips. Swallowing hard as she stared up into a pair of blue eyes that absolutely stole her breath, she found all she could manage was uttering an airy, "Hullo."

"I'm Bucky . . . Barnes."

"I think I read mention of you in Peggy's letters. Sgt. Barnes, right? You worked with my grandmother." Her memories were a bit scattered right now, but she could definitely recall his name. But her grandmother, as it turned out, had mentored many people—cousin Sharon, included—so Hermione wasn't surprised she only recalled his name, just now.

He nodded, a sheepish grin on his lips that kind of made her think she might curl up and die on the spot for how adorable the expression was on him. "Yeah, kind of. We were more of acquaintances, though."

Frowning, she managed to yank her gaze from his perfect features—the chiseled jaw and sharp cheek bones, that five o'clock shadow that was somehow more becoming than scruffy, the brown hair that was just long enough to brush his shoulders. She thought it was a bit endearing the way he kept tucking it behind his ears.

"Probably still know her better than I did," the witch said with a shrug. "My name's Hermione. Granger."

For a handful of strained heartbeats, the pair stood, staring off into the distance of the cemetery. After fidgeting long enough that she was starting to drive herself a bit bonkers, she turned her head to look at him.

Apparently feeling the weight of her gaze, he met her eyes.

"You don't seem like a 'Bucky'," she said, the freckled bridge of her nose crinkling.

Chuckling softly, he nodded. "My name's James, but everyone calls me Bucky. It's short for my middle name, Buchanan."

She let out a surprised laugh. "Buchanan? Now _that's_ a name!"

"I know, right?" The ease of the moment was exactly what he needed. His skills might've taken a nosedive, but he still had enough instinct about the fairer sex to recognize social cues. "It's probably not my place to say, but you seem like you're having a rough time. You wanna go get a drink, or something?"

Hermione pivoted to face him fully, one eyebrow arched and a curious half-grin tugging at her lips. "Do I look like a girl who'd go for a drink with a man she just met?"

Shrugging, he stuffed his gloved fists into the pockets of his trousers and darted his gaze about as he spoke. "I don't know about that, but you _do_ look like a girl who can make me sorry if I try to pull anything."

She narrowed her eyes in an appraising look before she nodded. "You're not wrong. Fine, _a_ drink."

* * *

Hermione collapsed against him, catching her breath in ragged gulps as he brushed exhausted kisses against her hair. Bloody hell, they hadn't even gotten their clothes off . . . he was even still wearing one of his black leather gloves.

How had this even . . . ?

Bracing her palms against his chest, she pushed herself up enough to meet his gaze. "I—" She cut herself off as she forced another few breaths so she could speak uninterrupted. "I _really_ didn't mean for this to happen when I agreed to a drink."

With a lopsided smile, he shrugged, tracing his gloved fingertips over the bra he'd haphazardly tugged out of his way, her button-down blouse hanging open around her. He thought for sure he had probably popped some of those buttons clean off the material by accident. "I _really_ didn't mean for this to happen when I asked you."

Appearing suddenly self-conscious, she glanced about his hotel room. "Do you want me to go, now?"

He understood why she might think that. And he didn't know this girl from Eve, but something about her asking that question made him feel like he'd been punched in the gut.

"No." The word fell from his lips before he could think to stop it. "I mean . . . unless you want to go."

"No." She shook her head, but immediately looked upset with herself for answering so fast. "I just, well, you know how it is. Usually when a man shags a woman he just met, that's all he wants from her."

Scraping his teeth across his bottom lip, he raked the fingers of his bare right hand through her wild hair in delicate tugs. "Well, how about this, since neither of us really knows how we got here . . . " He paused as she laughed at that. "We give it another shot, and if the second time around is bad, we can part ways and never see each other again."

"Ooh." She couldn't help a smile as she leaned down, brushing her mouth against his before responding. "And if it's not bad?"

A sudden seriousness edged his features as he said, "Then I guess I'll be staying in Britain a while longer than I'd planned."

Bucky knew he should tell her the reason he'd approached her. He knew he should tell her about the mission, and his connection to her family. But as she leaned into him once more, darting her tongue between his lips in a playful, hungry kiss, he lost the ability to reason with himself.

He could tell her about it over breakfast. Of course, it would probably turn out to be their first fight, but he couldn't think about anything else just now.

Letting her in on the host of secrets that were all his own was going to be a separate mess, entirely. And it was certainly not something he could consider in this moment, either, as he pulled her head up to drag his lips down along her throat.


	2. Family Secrets

OMG, I'm SO sorry! I genuinely lose track of time with all these fics (don't suggest 'well, maybe write fewer fics and you won't have that issue', because I've tried to stem the flow of WIPs, and all that did was make it so I couldn't write anything at all *sigh*), and I didn't realize at all that it's nearly been a year since I posted the first chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

Family Secrets

He awoke to find her sprawled on her stomach across the bed, her legs over his, as she perused the room service menu. Bucky must've made some sound as he drifted into consciousness, he realized, because though he hadn't moved, yet, she cast a quick glance at him over her shoulder before returning to the list of items before her.

"So, serious question."

He knew he made a noise this time, a fairly guttural rumbling in the back of his throat as he stretched. Though she'd unbuttoned his shirt during the night, it was still on, as was his left glove, so she'd not glimpsed his, um, _prosthetic_ limb yet. Whatever her 'serious question' was, it couldn't be about why he looked like he was part futuristic cyborg. He didn't know if he was relieved because it left that as one of the things he could work his way up to telling her, or a smidge panic-stricken, as it meant he'd have to find some way to work himself up to telling her _everything_ , rather than her finding something off and peppering him with questions, herself.

"Shoot."

"Are you a pancakes sort of man?"

Bucky grinned, his eyes closing as he nodded against the pillow. "Yeah, actually."

"I should probably warn you, though, they're a bit different here than pancakes in the States, at least from what I've heard."

Snickering, he nodded again. "I'll risk it."

He watched her as she reached around, picking up the phone off its cradle on the nightstand. Watched how bright her expression was as she ordered them breakfast and coffee. Watched the play of sunlight from the nearby window through her wild hair.

Shit. He was actually happy.

He wasn't supposed to have something like this. Not him. Well, then, he supposed it was just as well that he had to tell her the truth. Better to do it now then after he got to used to this sort of comfort.

As he opened his mouth to start—fucked if he knew _where_ to start, exactly—she hung up the phone and shifted on the bed to curl into his side. Wincing, he dropped his gaze to the top of her head as she rested her cheek against his chest and sighed.

Hell, she wasn't making this easy . . . just his luck, he guessed.

In a pained tone, he began, "Hermione? We, um, we have to talk."

At those words, she immediately she shot up from his side, her chestnut eyes enormous. "Talk? Talk what? Oh, God! You have a wife?"

Bucky sat up as well, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. "No. Nothing like—"

"Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"What?" His features scrunched at that question. Though he'd heard the jokes about how close he and Steve were, he didn't really swing that way. "No."

"Then what could . . . . Oh." In a blink, her posture eased and the shock in her expression faded a bit. "God, I'm so stupid. You worked with Peggy, of course. You're . . . you're on an assignment and I'm interfering. That's it, isn't it?"

Holy shit, she _was_ sharp. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he started tugging at the glove on his left hand. "You're partly right. I'm here on assignment, unofficially. But you're _not_ interfering."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"There's a lot to explain so that you _can_ understand. Promise me, first, that you'll hear me out. You won't get scared off."

Her brows pinched together as she dropped her gaze from his eyes to watch what he was doing. "Not much scares me anymore, Bucky. But yes, I'll hear you out."

That shock filled her expression all over again as he pulled the glove free, flexing his metallic fingers before her. "Okay. Bear with me. This starts back in World War II . . . ."

She listened. She questioned. After he removed his shirt, revealing the technological marvel that was his left arm, she inched closer as he talked, examining the limb with wide eyes and curious, fleeting touches.

Somewhere in the midst of his explanations—after falling from the train? Before? Oh, there was so much information, Hermione was just happy to be keeping some form of track of it all—a knock sounded at the door. Even in the tension of the moment, they commiserated over what poor timing they'd chosen to not simply wait until after their room service order had arrived so they could speak without interruption.

Hermione had gone to the door to retrieve the cart, making certain the waiter did not get a glimpse of Bucky and his silver arm further in the room.

As she fixed her coffee, needing something to focus on, he continued. Genetic experiments, HYDRA, programming . . . serums, not unlike they used on that Captain America bloke, the creation of SHIELD. His friendship with the aforementioned super-soldier . . . .

"So you're really . . . really . . . ?"

"Like a hundred years old?" He uttered a self-derisive chuckle as he shook his head. "Yeah. That bother you?"

Echoing the sound, she shook her head right back—she was biting her tongue on mentioning that she was a witch, and people like her lived extremely long lives and aged _very_ well, so really, this wasn't as big of a revelation as it might be to a Muggle woman. Though, being a century old and holding up the looks of a 30 year old wasn't quite the same thing, she supposed. "Oddly, I think I'm okay with that. But . . . this _all_ has to do with what you're doing here?"

"Actually, yeah."

"Shouldn't you not be telling me any of this?"

"You need to hear _all_ of this. You need to know."

Hermione once more shook her head, setting down her coffee. "Why?"

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, cringing as he forced out a breath. "Listen, before I tell you this part, I need you to know I really didn't mean for this to happen. When I asked you for that drink yesterday, I really had no idea we'd end up here like, well, like this."

"You already said as much last night, and I _said_ I believed you. Why are you telling me again?"

He met her gaze, frowning. "Because I need to _know_ that you really do." He couldn't really understand that part, himself. He barely knew her, but he knew he liked her, knew he felt some connection with her. He'd hate himself if he screwed things up before they'd even really gotten started.

"And my answer is the same. I believe you."

"Okay . . . okay." With another unpleasant face, he tipped back his head to stare daggers at the ceiling. "I'm here working with Sharon Carter. We, um, we need your help, that's why I approached you yesterday at the funeral."

Despite her words, this new information set her blood boiling. "My cousin Sharon? She put you up to this?"

"No, no. Well, technically yes, but I told you, it's not like that."

Hermione clenched her teeth, barely refraining from retrieving her wand from her bag. "Look, I don't see what any of you could need my help with, anyway. None of your work could possibly have anything to do with me."

"Hermione . . . how much do you _really_ know about your grandmother?"

"What do you mean?" She scowled, the temptation to draw her wand and hit him with a fierce stinging hex increasing by the moment. "I think I made it perfectly clear I didn't know her well, at all, or didn't Sharon tell you as much?"

"Did Peggy ever write you anything about your grandfather?"

That . . . that was unexpected. "My grandfather?"

"What do you know about him?"

Furrowing her brow, Hermione shrugged. "Nothing. He died in World War II, she wouldn't even tell me his . . . . World War II? You knew him, didn't you? You served with him?"

He nodded. "I served with him, I _know_ him. He's my best friend."

Oh, well, it wouldn't have taken a genius to tie that into all the information he'd already given her. For Hermione Granger, the connection was instantaneous. And felt a little bit a punch in the stomach.

"You're speaking in present tense."

"Yeah."

"And you . . . your best friend is—"

"Steve Rogers, Captain America."

"My grandfather's alive?" Her lower lip trembled and her eyes welled. This was too much. She'd already felt robbed of a relationship with her grandmother, but now this? To know her grandfather had been alive all this time, kept from her by Peggy Carter's secrets?

Bucky sighed, pinching between his brows. She sounded lost . . . lost and upset and he couldn't say he blamed her. "I'm sorry I'm making you angry, I'm sorry I can't make any of this easier. I wish circumstances were different, but they're not."

"What is it you all need from me, anyway? You're a super-soldier, Sharon's some sort of secret agent, I gather, following in Peggy's footsteps . . . . What could you _possibly_ need from me?"

"We lost track of Steve on a mission, a very dangerous mission, and we were hoping you could help us find him."

"How the bloody hell am I supposed to do that?"

His brows inched upward. "Sharon said you inherited some family trait for magic?"

Hermione's eyes squeezed shut as she spoke in a hissing breath, "Bugger it all! Of course my bloody family can't keep this _one_ thing quiet! That Muggle shouldn't know a thing." Then again, her grandmother being who she was, she probably had known about the Wizarding world all along from some source or another. "I can't know my grandfather was Captain America, but they can know I'm a witch? How the fucking hell is that fair?"

"Muggle?"

Hermione scowled harder then before and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. They already knew about her, so it was hardly as though she was breaking any tenants of the Statute of Secrecy. "Non-Magical people. Don't even get me started on what they call you in the States."

"So, it's true? You're a witch?"

At the disbelief in his voice, she met his gaze with narrowed eyes. "So, it's true? You're a hundred year old super soldier?"

He smirked in spite of himself. "Point."

Hermione had no idea what to think, no idea what to say. She was angry, sad, confused, relieved, anxious. Her grandfather was alive. _Alive_ and she could help him.

At her continued silence, Bucky grabbed his shirt. "Look, if you need a minute with this, I can go—"

"Don't be ridiculous, this is your hotel room. Kicking you out wouldn't be proper."

Arching a brow at her distracted tone, he echoed in a whisper, "Wouldn't be proper?" He never would get the hang of British people.

When she once more lapsed into silence, he shifted across the bed to sit in front of her directly. "You okay with all this?" He knew it was a stupid question, but it was _the_ stupid question that always had to be asked.

"No." She let out a mirthless snicker. "It's all so much. I don't know how I feel. I feel _everything_ about this."

He nodded. He knew he couldn't possibly understand what any of this was like for her.

Then she made a noise that surprised him. She _laughed._ The genuinely amused sound she was trying hard to stifle bubbled out of her and he met her squinting gaze with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head as she tried to speak amid peels of laughter. "I just . . . I'm just sitting her thinking . . . I should be ashamed of myself. I shagged my grandfather's best friend!"

Pursing his lips, he nodded. Okay, so perhaps that part of this entire situation _was_ humorous. Biting back a chuckle of his own, he tacked on, "Four times."

Hermione clamped her hands over her mouth as she burst out in a fresh bout of giggles.

After a few heartbeats, however, her hands slipped down to land in her lap. The tears welling in her eyes from laughter began spilling down her cheeks and the sounds escaping her lips became small, breathless sobs.

Frowning, Bucky pulled her into his lap and cradled her close, letting her cry against his shoulder.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she said, though her words were nearly unintelligible for the tears clogging her throat.

"Shut up, you are not."

Amid her crying, she couldn't help a hushed laugh at his frankness.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head. After a few minutes, she quieted. Though he didn't want to think about anything else right now, he knew he should put in a call to Sharon and Sam sometime soon.

But what was happening in this moment felt more important than checking in—and really, he could already hear Sam snickering in the background as he told Sharon what the delay was. "So . . . . Is this thing with you and me weird now?"

Untucking her head from beneath his chin, she searched his gaze with her own. "No. This is going to sound stupid, but what's weird is that it _doesn't_ feel weird."

A relieved smile broke across his lips. "Oh, good. It's not just me, then."

"You should feel flattered, it's not very often I'm stupid."

The delicate skin beneath his blue eyes crinkled as that smile widened. "Noted."

"So what do we do from here? We meet Sharon for a-a briefing, or however you handle these things?"

"Sharon and Sam are waiting to hear from me, yeah. Probably wondering where we disappeared to by now, anyway."

Hermione arched a brow. "Who's Sam?"

Bucky nodded, reaching around her for the room service cart to start fixing his own cup of coffee now. "Another friend of your grandfather's. You'll meet him when talk to Sharon. And don't listen to a word he says about me."


End file.
